


The Beginning of Wisdom

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, vaguely fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:16:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Oswald negotiate the boundaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning of Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the same universe as 'From This Night Not a Whisper' (https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086304), and takes place in season one.

Oswald rolls his shoulders irritably and looks round the rather dingy interview room. He has no idea who the idiotic detective was who seemed to be arresting _everyone_ with even the vaguest connection to Falcone and dragging them to the station, but the precinct was in a state of absolute bedlam. Handcuffed lackeys, muscle and various assorted hoodlums were yelling abuse at the uniformed officers trying to process them, who were in turn responding as GCPD tended to, with a liberal use of violence, peppered with the occasional acceptance of a bribe.

He had looked around in the midst of it all, hopeful that he could catch Jim’s eye – but had only been able to catch an occasional glimpse of him as he tried to break up fights and calm the whole situation, taking a glancing blow to the jaw in the process. Poor Jim. He did try so. It pained Oswald to see him here, amongst these men who despised him so, who weren’t fit to work alongside him. If Jim would only let him, he’d _make_ them apologise to him, make them _grovel._

There is a growing murmuring of voices outside the door, disturbing this satisfying train of thought. Oswald strains to hear what is being said, but can only hear that the voices are agitated, aggressive. The voices stop suddenly, and he watches the door handle turn. To his delight, it is not the aggressively stupid detective from earlier, but Jim himself. Oswald feels a foolish grin stretch his face at the sight of him, but this peters out when he gets a decent look at him.

Jim looks _exhausted_ , and his usual alert, controlled manner seems to be rather fraying at the edges. Even his usually immaculately neat – if rather plain – standard of dress seems to be slipping, his tie loose and askew. Sitting down opposite Oswald, he presses his fingers tiredly to the bridge of his nose before opening his case file. 

Oswald is used to scanning people’s faces to glean their emotions, to let him capitalise on them, and create an advantage for himself. It is one of his many gifts, and one that has rewarded him richly in the past. He notes, with some surprise, that seeing Jim like this does not trigger this usual habit, that it produces nothing but a wave of discontent, and a strong desire to remedy whatever is wrong. Maybe this is what real friendship is like, then. He leans forward a little.

‘Jim, my friend. I’m…pleased to see you. Are you…are you quite well?’

Jim looks up.

‘The city is a cesspit, my workmates hate me, the force is rotten with corruption, and I just pulled a fourteen hour shift.’

Oswald taps his fingers nervously on the table. What to say to that?

‘Can I do anything to help?’

‘You can help me by answering these questions honestly.’

Yes, yes of course.’ He frowns. ‘I’m rather confused, though, at your questioning me – another officer brought me in’

‘Mulvaney’ 

Jim’s lip curls contemptuously as he says the name. Amused, Oswald wonders whether he’s even aware that he’s doing it. Jim is terribly transparent, and although it gives him little rush of affection whenever he sees it, it’s a dangerous quality in this city. 

Jim clears his throat, starts scanning the file in front of him. 

‘I convinced him that it was more appropriate for me to question you, well – Harvey did, anyway.’ He pauses, and quieter, almost as an afterthought, adds, ‘Mulvaney’s interrogation technique turns my stomach.’ 

Oswald is deeply touched by this concern for his welfare. 

He leans forward, his expression earnest.

‘Jim, I can assure you, I am _not_ involved in this. It’s _stupid,_ and half-baked, and risky, and we both know I’m smarter than that. I…’

Jim holds up a hand.

‘Slow down. I will actually have to question you – you understand that, don’t you?’

Oswald is nonplussed. ‘But, I thought…’

‘I’m _trying_ to set an example. Just because I’m not willing to allow you to be beaten and menaced in police custody doesn’t mean I can just skip the interview and let you go.’

Oswald sits back in his seat and eyes him shrewdly.

‘You _do_ believe me though, don’t you?’

Jim keeps his face impassive, but there’s a flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes. Now that he knows Jim does believe him, Oswald relaxes – happy to go through with the interview if it makes Jim’s life easier. He smiles sweetly. 

‘I’m happy to help you with your enquiries, Detective.’

**

Jim opens his file and begins to check information.

‘Name?’

‘Oswald Cobblepot.’

Jim is still regarding the open file. He frowns. 

‘Your mother’s name is spelled differently.’

An eye for detail, as he would have expected. 

‘It’s a common problem for immigrants, Detective. Officials can’t pronounce the name, and write what they hear. Kapelput becomes Cobblepot.’

Jim looks up.

‘I can request it to be changed, if you’d like?’

Oswald smiles and shakes his head. ‘I’d spend every introduction repeating my name. Then spelling it. Then listening to people mispronounce it anyway.’

Jim lowers his eyes back to the file.

‘It is kind of you to offer, though.’

Jim gives a slight nod in acknowledgement of his thanks without looking up.

‘And this. Is this a typo? It says here Oswald C. Cobblepot. You don’t have a middle name, do you?’

Oswald hedged for time. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I seem to remember you announcing yourself in the foyer here, very loudly, as Oswald Cobblepot.’

Oswald smiles wickedly at him.

‘All to defend your reputation, my friend.’

The tips of Jim’s ears turn pink. How interesting. Anger? Embarrassment? Something else? Oswald has no time to ponder it.

Jim repeats himself flatly. ‘Middle. Name.’

Oswald surrenders. He sighs and purses his lips. 

‘Chesterfield’

His eyes snap back to Jim’s face. Jim is looking down at his file with a suspicious level of concentration, his face too fixedly serious. Oswald’s eyes widen.

‘You’re laughing at me, Jim!’

Jim looks up at that, his expression conciliatory. Oswald finds that the familiar haze of anger produced whenever he is laughed at dissipates rather more quickly than it usually would. 

‘It’s... unusual.’

Oswald rolls his eyes towards the ceiling.

‘I honestly think my mother just heard the word somewhere before she had much English and thought it sounded impressive. It could have been worse – I suppose.’

James still looks reasonably conciliatory, so Oswald decides to push his luck.

‘Do you?’

‘Think it sounds impressive?’

‘ _No_ – I know you think it sounds silly, anyway - I meant: do you have any middle names?’

‘Cobblepot – I’m not the one being questioned’

Oswald decides to apply some gentle pressure to Jim’s weakest spot: his sense of fairness. He tilts his head down meekly, before peeking up at Jim through his lashes.

‘You know _my_ middle name. My horribly _embarrassing_ middle name. It’s hardly confidential police business, and it only seems fair…’

Jim sighs, exasperated. He runs his tongue over his teeth and eyes Oswald distrustfully, like he’s weighing him up. His fingers tap against the table.

‘Worthington’

It’s only the fact that he can lie beautifully that keeps a pleasant, neutral expression on Oswald’s face. 

‘I like it’ he says. ‘It sounds very… grand.’

Jim’s eyes narrow suspiciously, not believing a word of it. He moves on quickly.

‘Now, your date of birth... ’

‘It doesn’t quite suit you, though’

Sorry?

‘Well. James Gordon. It’s honest. Straightforward. Solid. It fits you.’

Jim is giving him that odd look again. He saw it when he tried to invite him to his club, and then again when he had visited him there to talk about Flass. It’s not his grim, business-like face. It’s not the guarded, apprehensive face he wears when he’s feels that he’s breaking his own moral code. It’s... conflicted, confused - which is unusual for a man as sure of right and wrong as Jim Gordon is. Like he’s trying to label him and can’t quite decide what fits. 

Oswald decides to be a good friend and rescue him from his confusion. He tilts his head, smiles.

‘Anyway – I apologise for the interruption.’

Jim rubs a hand over his forehead and goes back to working through the file. Oswald answers everything else politely.

‘Now. Your whereabouts on the night of February 17th?’ 

‘I was at the club all night, watching it fail miserably. Gabe, Butch and several members of bar staff can attest to this.’

‘No customers?’

‘As I said, I was watching it fail miserably.’ 

‘It’ll pick up’ says Jim. He keeps his tone flat, his eyes on the paper in front of him – but Oswald isn’t deceived. Jim isn’t a man for banal niceties. If he hadn’t meant it, he wouldn’t have said it at all.

‘You’re very kind, Detective’, he says, softly.

Jim’s hand stills on the page for a moment. His lashes flicker, but he doesn’t look up at him. 

There a beat of silence. If there were actually any other officers in GCPD diligent enough to bother observing them through the two-way mirror, this connection between them, whatever it is, would seem obvious - the whole interrogation something of a farce. 

Oswald thinks about that connection, about this bond he so prizes, and feels a fierce need to help him, to show Jim’s colleagues that his way of doing things is the right way, to give him a victory, for once.

‘May I make an observation that might be of use to your investigation?’

Jim straightens up, regards him steadily.

‘This scheme was – as I said – half-baked, risky, poorly-thought-out. I would doubt anyone of any significance has anything to do with it. It strikes me as something that would be attempted by someone in desperate need of money, with enough understanding of the lower-levels of business to exploit the process, but not enough to avoid being caught.’

Jim nods in agreement.

‘You’re looking for someone who is, at best, a lackey, maybe low-level muscle. And not very ambitious or imaginative.’ Oswald tilts his head, thinking. ‘He’s been stealing. Or he owes money. Either way, he’s desperate, and had to get hold of a lot of money fast to get him out of a fix. Your colleague… Mulvaney, you said? Arresting everyone in sight?’ He shakes his head disdainfully. ‘He’s not very bright, I’m afraid.’

Jim leans back in his chair and looks at him consideringly.

‘You do see things, don’t you?’

Oswald looks back at him and smiles. 

There is a knock at the door, and Detective Bullock enters.

‘You done with the room yet, Jim? There are other scumbags to be questioned.’

Oswald scowls at him, and Bullock sneers back.

Jim stands and ushers Oswald out.

**

After Jim has signed the necessary release papers, he walks Oswald to the main door of the precinct. They both step out onto the street. It’s easily 1am by now, and there’s a light drizzle falling. Oswald tilts his head up, welcoming the cool night air and the rain after being stuck in the crowded station for hours. He glances over at Jim, to that find he is watching him. He had assumed that Jim had walked him out to deliver some parting scolding, or warning about behaving himself. He waits expectantly, but Jim doesn’t say anything.

‘Do you have many more suspects to question?’

‘I’m off-duty’ he says shortly. He looks down at his feet, back up at Oswald. ‘You?’

‘The premises were still being searched when I left.’ He sighs. ‘You know, Jim, I wouldn’t be surprised if your colleague had been put up to this zealousness by... other parties, just to cause disruption to my new establishment.'

Jim looks tired. ‘It had occurred to me’. He rubs at the back of his neck. ‘I take it you’d prefer not to show up at your mother’s at this time of night?’

Oswald blinks at the sudden change of subject. Jim is looking at him expectantly. Of course, he remembers, he told him that before, when Jim had taken him back to his own apartment. He feels a little glow at the memory.

‘Well, no – ideally not.’

Jim nods once, looking up the street, eyes avoiding him. Oswald is momentarily puzzled, and then he realises suddenly that Jim wants company. Maybe, _maybe,_ even particularly wants _his_ company. This is far too wonderful a prospect to leave in Jim's rather tentative hands, and so he takes the initiative.

‘You were kind enough to extend your hospitality to me once before. Would it be a great inconvenience if…?’

Jim clears his throat. ‘You assisted with enquiries. The arrest might well have been orchestrated by a criminal party who wants to inflict harm. I can’t guarantee the integrity of the officers searching your club. It’s probably my responsibility to exercise some caution and keep an eye on you.'

Oswald is highly entertained by this litany of justifications that James has just produced. Surely it would be faster to say that he wanted to spend some time with a friend? He’s not going to quibble, though, so he offers his thanks and they walk together to his car.

**

The car journey was quiet, and short, and oddly companionable. Oswald realises, when Jim turns into an unfamiliar street, that he must have finally moved from Barbara’s apartment – like he said he would.

‘Your new home’ he says, genuine pleasure in his voice at the prospect of seeing Jim’s own house.

‘If you’re expecting it to be as fancy as Barbara’s, you’re going to be disappointed’, says Jim, gruffly.

Dire warnings aside, when Jim opens the door, Oswald is pleasantly surprised. He had been expected something utterly ramshackle, from Jim’s manner – some kind of unspeakable bachelor squalor. He looks round, taking in the details. This isn’t as splendid and elegant as his last home, of course, but it’s welcoming, and warm, and feels _safe_. It feels like Jim lives here. He notices Jim watching him with a raised eyebrow.

‘It’s nice’ he says. ‘Homely. It feels safe.’

‘I’m sure homely is actually some kind of insult’ Jim says, before walking through to the small kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘It was not an insult!’ Oswald hurries through after him. ‘Let me help with the coffee?’

Jim tells him it’s fine, though, and so Oswald wanders back through to the small living room. There’s a well-stocked bookcase, pictures on the walls. He seems to have acquired the cashmere throw from Barbara’s place, folded over the back of the couch.

‘I thought you only needed a bed, a shower, and a fridge?’ he calls over.

When he turns, Jim has apparently walked quietly through from the kitchen, and is rather closer than he expected, handing him a cup of coffee. Oswald thanks him, and takes a seat on the sofa. Jim sits in the armchair nearest him. There is a moment of silence as they sip their coffee. 

‘I do only need a bed, a shower, and a fridge’ says Jim. He frowns. ‘But… this city, this job… it’s good to have somewhere.’

‘A refuge’ offers Oswald. ‘Somewhere outside it all.’

Jim nods. 

Oswald considers for a moment, and decides to share his own refuge. 

‘I like the public library.’

Jim’s eyebrows raise.

Oswald is insulted. ‘What? You don’t think I read?’

‘No – I’m not saying that – it’s just, it’s such a calm place, and you’re so...’

Oswald waits for his assessment.

‘Frenetic. Keyed-up’

Oswald hums thoughtfully. ‘Well – my job is stressful.’ 

Jim almost chokes on his coffee. 

‘Stressful? Falcone wanted a bullet in your head. Maroni threatened to send Falcone your head in a bag.’

Oswald shrugs dismissively. ‘Yes, as I said – stressful. The calm of the library soothes me. And then I read while my mind is quieter, and the new ideas can settle.’

‘You read military strategy.’ says Jim.

Oswald frowns. ‘How did you…?’

‘What’s war, but politics by other means?’ 

Oswald would swear that stern, sober-sided Jim Gordon almost looked smug.

Which leads to a discussion on military tacticians. Which stretches long enough into the early hours that Oswald can’t actually remember when either of them stopped talking and fell asleep, but realises that this is what must have happened when he opens bleary eyes to find grey morning light washing the room.

He sits up slowly, wincing as the weight shifts on his bad leg. He glances over at Jim, still asleep in the armchair – but beginning to stir at the sound of his movement. This is the second time he’s slept in the same room as Jim. There’s a warm, fizzing feeling of happiness in him that reminds him of good champagne. 

Jim is stirring properly now, and stretches out. Oswald finds his breath rather catches in his throat at that – it’s such an unguarded movement, and Jim’s body is – well – he has _noticed_ it, of course and…he pulls at his collar, willing his face to stop blushing.

As he’s looking over, Jim opens his eyes. There’s a moment where he looks at him and Oswald cannot read what he sees there, but it passes quickly for a sheepish expression.

‘Must’ve passed out’ says Jim, his voice rough from sleep.

Oswald nods.

Jim sits up, rubs the back of his neck, winces. His eyes flick to Oswald’s bad leg.

‘Are you…that’s not…?’

Oswald rushes to allay his concern.

‘Oh no, no. I'm fine. Absolutely’

That was a rather ambitious lie. He’ll need to try very hard not to wince when he stands up.

Jim glances at his watch, frowning.

‘Six thirty. That gives me enough time to shower, drive you back – and then head to work.’

Oswald blinks. ‘Work? I thought you just worked a fourteen hour shift?’

Jim stands up. ‘Someone will have to clean up that mess from last night. Might as well do it properly.’ He’s started to slide his tie off as he speaks, thinking of work already, about to make for the shower. 

Oswald stares at his hands working the tie loose, imagining how it would feel between his fingers. Or how it would feel if Jim were to slowly pull _his_ tie from his collar, the fabric whispering against his neck. Jim turns and walks down the hall without noticing.

**

The car journey is strangely comfortable again. As Jim parks at the club, Oswald spots Gabe hovering in the doorway. He nods once at Oswald, and then disappears inside the club.

‘Quite safe now’ says Oswald, lightly.

Jim sets his jaw, a reproving light in his eyes. They don’t quite share the same definition of safety. He looks distinctly grim.

Oswald leans in at the window after getting out of the car. He had a _lovely_ evening, it’s a sunny morning, the club seems free of Maroni’s odious presence and, overweening as usual, he bets he can even drag a smile from his serious friend.

‘I’m so _grateful_ for your hospitality, James Worthington Gordon.’

Jim gives him a sidelong look from narrowed eyes. There’s the _tiniest_ little twitch at the corner of his mouth. It could be annoyance, but Oswald knows better.

**

Jim drops the final completed file onto his desk and stands to leave for the day. A couple of faces from the desks down below catch sight of him and glare. It’s wearing on him, being ostracized the way he is, though he wouldn’t admit it. Would never admit it. There are damn few people in this town who would care if he died tomorrow, in fact there’d probably be more who’d want to dance on his grave. 

It has occurred to him recently that someone whose face lights up whenever they see him is perhaps not something he should take for granted. 

Jim’s not sure what he’s doing with Cobblepot. He’s a rules and regulations man – they’re safe, certain – exist for a reason. But his relationship with Cobblepot is built on flouting authority and breaking rules – refusing to do as he’s told. It’s created a strangely tight bond between them, a feeling that the rules they would each apply to everyone else somehow don’t apply with each other. Not with _them_. They’re the exception to each other’s rules.

There’s something _addictive_ about it. Jim has known uncertainty and betrayal since he returned: at home as well as work, and from the past as well as the present: his father’s memory forever tainted now. But while Oswald Cobblepot may be many things, while Jim would never trust him to do the _right_ thing – he knows that Oswald Cobblepot will not hurt him – would go to ridiculous lengths to ensure his safety. In his bones, he knows the same is true of him. He hadn’t really questioned himself at all when he’d allowed Cobblepot to stay in his apartment twice – no real fear about having him in his home.

Trust – that kind of real trust – is rare. Heady. It’s made the atmosphere when he has taken him home more intimate than it should have been. Much, much more. They’ve wound up sleeping in the same room, both times, not far from each other. Jim is willing to bet that Oswald is completely inexperienced, or he’d have guessed at how perilously close Jim has nearly come to completely crossing the line – standing way too close, looking with too much interest. He’s oblivious for all his gazes and smiles – and there’s a sweetness to that that charms Jim, even though it most definitely shouldn’t.

Arriving home and trudging up the stairs - Jim stops short just before his apartment door. There’s a lavish looking hamper sitting outside. He picks it up and heads inside. Placing it on the counter, he is trying to summon a sense of annoyance about the gesture – but the line has pretty much been crossed repeatedly now, and it would make him a hypocrite. Still, though, something like this could be construed as a sweetener, a bribe. If there’s booze in here – then it’ll definitely look like a bribe, and then he’s no better than the rest of them.

He’s just about decided to go tell Oswald he really can’t do this kind of thing again, when he notices there's a card in the hamper. Sliding it from its envelope, it reads:

_From O.C.C to J.W.G_

His heart gives a painful little thump in his chest. 

** 

Ultimately, he decides against trying to return the hamper. It would probably damage their professional equilibrium, or possibly draw attention to their relationship and create unnecessary risk, and it’s probably his responsibility to exercise his professional judgment and ensure the safety of someone who did, after all, assist with enquiries.

And it’ll be handy to have food in the cupboard for his next inevitable visit, anyway. 

The card stays on his kitchen counter for a while. He keeps meaning to throw it away, but he’s usually quick and slapdash in the kitchen, focused on grabbing food between shifts, and he somehow forgets each time. 

When he _does_ eventually remember to get rid of it – he actually has it in his hand this time - he is walking towards the garbage when he suddenly remembers that he promised to phone Harvey about changing a shift. He walks back through to the living room instead to make the call, idly turning the card this way and that in his hand as he does so. 

He stands by the bookcase as he’s talking, still distractedly playing with the card and, somehow, instead of throwing it away, he slides it between two books, where only he could find it.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is from a Chinese proverb: The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names. Jim and Oswald find out each other's full names, but Jim is also getting better at recognising what's going on in his relationship with Oswald, and putting a name to it.
> 
> It amused me that Oswald and Jim both had these grand middle names.
> 
> The military tactician Jim quotes at Oswald is the same one Oswald quoted to him, Carl von Clausewitz.
> 
> I imagined that New York public library might just be to Oswald's tastes:
> 
> http://cdn-prod.www.aws.nypl.org/sites/default/files/images/locations/36/interior_sasb_reading_room.jpg


End file.
